


Glitter In The Dark

by badjujuboo (miztrezboo)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:51:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/badjujuboo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It should be enough, but it isn’t.</i>
</p>
<p>Or the one where Harry is in a slightly big Indie Rock band and Liam is the friend with benefits who tries to want nothing more than Harry can give. And fails badly. Also the one that is <a href="www.youtube.com/watch?v=D6kLJiednQc">Bat For Lashes “Laura”</a> fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glitter In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> thanks as always to the people i hurt the most aka the ones i make read it first: coolbreeeze, mrsty31, avis and the zayn to my liam - shrdmdnssftw.
> 
> ALSO EPIC BIG LOVE TO MY GAL i_am_ammo for the most perfect of perfect playlists because we are married in all things music and you can listen to the epicness of it [here](http://i-am-ammo.livejournal.com/12727.html#t181687)

_you're the train that crashed my heart,  
you're the glitter in the dark_

 

“It’s all we need, innit?” 

“What’s that?”

“You, me, a cup of coffee, and a cigarette.”

“Yeah.” Liam sighs, looking out over the forest of buildings lighting up in golden hues as the sun rises over the city. “Yeah.”

. . .

 

It’s three thirty-six a.m. and someone is pounding on Liam’s door. Liam shoots upright in bed when the noise wakes him from a dreamless sleep. There is only one person who knocks like that. Only one reason that he does.

Liam rubs at his eyes with one hand, blinking wearily as he pulls back the covers and shrugs on the near threadbare dressing gown he’s had since he was thirteen but refuses to give up, even if it barely fits anymore. It’s a little piece of home, and being so far away in a city that he isn’t sure about, it’s nice to have a little piece of comfort no matter what. He draws the fuzzy belt around his body, shivering at the chill in the room because the damn radiator is on the blink, and shuffles out and down the long hall. 

It’s dark but there is a little light coming in through the blinds in the living room from the full moon outside. It isn’t enough to stop him from walking into the side table his mother insisted he needed. The sharp edge nicks his hip, ripping at a hole already formed in the navy towelling, and by the sting of it, probably in his skin, too. Liam mumbles a curse as the knocking starts up again followed by his name, loud and drawn out, and it shouldn’t be right how it makes Liam feel.

Wanted.

Needed.

Not alone.

“Coming, coming! Be quiet, you twat!” he calls back, shout-whispering, really, because he’s close enough to the door to start undoing the locks.

“Okay,” comes the answer through the wood, just as Liam finishes with the dead bolt and turns the handle. He barely gets the door open before he’s falling backwards, the weight of two bodies combined knocking him to the floor. They land in the hall with an even louder thump as Liam’s breath rushes out, near smothered by whiskey, weed, and what was probably once a nice cologne but is masked by cigarettes and semen. Liam hates how good his nose can be, hates how he can smell those things while his face is pressed against soft curls, a neck warm and wet with sweat, and god knows what else.

“You’re home, then,” Harry’s gravelly voice intones, from somewhere near Liam’s collarbone if the rush of air across his skin is anything to go by.

Liam restricts himself from rolling his eyes. It isn’t as if Harry can see. “Yes, most people _are_ home at this time on a Tuesday night. Most people are asleep, even.”

Harry’s head turns and Liam can feel dry lips pressed just under his ear. “Sorry.” It’s a whisper and it tickles the short hairs on his neck, sends shivers down and across his chest until he can feel them everywhere. 

They stay like that, Harry’s breath in warm puffs across Liam’s skin and Liam just lying there coveting the weight of Harry above him, for too many ticks of the kitchen clock for Liam to keep track of. All he knows is how Harry feels and the buzz of thoughts he won’t let come to completion filling his head. And it’s nothing, really, nothing of note that changes it, but then Harry shifts his legs until he’s straddling Liam’s thigh, taking some of his weight from where Liam was squished underneath him. “Sorry,” he whispers under Liam’s jaw, again while mouthing at Li’s Adam’s apple, and again as his teeth nip over Liam’s bare collarbone from where his robe has slipped. 

Liam squeezes his eyes shut. Lets one hand find its way off the cold wooden floor and over Harry’s jean clad arse, a fingertip following the seam that runs just below the belt loops while his thumb skims under Harry’s shirt, heated skin at his fingertips. Harry’s breath stutters—Liam can feel it above him—and then Harry’s mouth is on his neck, sucking a bruise over Liam’s birthmark. Another _sorry_ , another lick, another bite, and Liam grabs at the loose hang of Harry’s jeans and drags him in. 

He shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want to feel Harry above him. Shouldn’t crave the curl of heat that having any part of Harry touching him twists and turns its way through his body until he’s near set on fire from want. 

Harry is leaning up on his forearm now, a delicate balancing act so he can worm one hand between them, tug at the tie of Liam’s robe, and slide his fingers over Liam’s stomach, muscles tensing as he goes. Harry’s tongue is curling around the soft skin of Liam’s earlobe, teeth dragging down just one shade less than painful, making Liam’s hips rock up and a moan rumble in his throat. He’s hard already and Harry is, too, where he’s pressed against Liam’s thigh, and Liam wants. He wants, and he wants, and he hates that he does because this is all there is.

Harry all hurt, unstuck and on the verge of crumbling, and relying on Liam to fix it, press him back together with touch and gentle words.

Liam with a needle and thread at the ready, arms open, wishing this would be the last time.

Liam giving in to all the things he tells himself afterard that he won’t do again. And again. And again.

“Li.” Harry’s got his hand around Liam's length now, stroking him lightly, slow and steady. It’s _perfect_ with the amount of space between them because Liam can feel Harry’s knuckles brush against his skin and it’s all Liam wants. These tiny pieces of Harry. The Harry he can’t help but crave and wish that Harry would feel the same. Maybe he does, maybe this is all he can give/have/take because it’s all Harry knows _how_ to. It’s thoughts like these that have Liam coming undone, letting all the ties he knotted twice unravel. The parts of him that he closes off afterwards, the "No Go Harry Zones" that he builds paper walls around, crumple and it’s like he never put them up.

“Harry,” Liam breathes, finally turning his face towards the boy who says his name in so many ways that mean so many things and Liam knows every single one of them. And this is want.

He knows the green of Harry’s eyes. Knows the hazel lines, the gold filigree scattered throughout and the slight pink blemish of a spidery vein that blooms in the corner of his left, a hit too hard breaking something that could never be righted. He knows without any light how blown wide Harry’s pupils are, how his cheeks are flushed with colour and how he’s licking over his bottom lip, wetting ruby-red, bruised skin. He knows because he’s seen it all before. Lilac tones from early dawn. Gaudy whites from the bright of midday. Shadows of tan and apricot from the setting sun. He _knows_ Harry and knows that he can’t give up any of this.

Even when it hurts, he can’t give up on Harry.

So it’s Liam who reaches up, lifts his head from the ground and chases Harry’s lips with his own. It’s Liam, swallowing Harry’s sounds as his free hand comes to rest nestled in the curls at the base of Harry’s neck, hard presses of his fingertips directing where their kisses lead. He tugs at Harry’s jeans—loose, material having less and less to cling to every time Liam feels him like this. He drags down those bloody Hilfiger pants Harry loves until he can wrap his hand around where Harry’s wet and sticky and hard. Harry rocks up into his touch, tugs at Liam’s lip until it hurts, and then he’s kissing Liam harder than before. 

They touch and feel and kiss like the world is ending (which it very well may be) and Liam forces his mind to clear of everything but what _now_ is. A buzz in the back of his mind roars to life and suppresses question and thought into _need_. Liam’s trying to remember that he’s getting Harry off, too, and not letting it just be the other boy doing all the work. It’s their lips pressed together, tasting and taking and the weight of Harry in his hand. It's the curl of Harry’s tongue in Li’s mouth that's perfect and comes from how well they know each other. How many times they’ve been here before (bed, sofa, crumbling brick wall, that one time in the glass elevator of that hotel). Harry twists his hand in just the right way and Liam flicks his thumb over the crown of Harry’s dick. Harry squeezes _just so_ on an upward stroke and Liam pauses to rub at Harry’s balls. It’s all these little things that make Liam think there is more to this, could be more to this.

Then Harry’s at his ear again, Liam’s skin tingling from every single part of where their bodies align or press and it’s worse as Harry _breathes_ Liam’s name in this choked sob. Liam can’t think, can’t speak or do or anything, because he’s coming and it’s this white heat and sticky wet on his hand, his belly, and Harry’s a beat or four behind him, teeth biting hard into the juncture of Liam’s shoulder and neck. It’s slick and it feels past good to the point of near pain as neither of them stops the slow shift of their hands, the shuddery rock of their hips. Liam never finishes touching first—never wants to in case it’s the last time (though it never is. Never will be).

Harry rolls to the side after one particular hitch in his breath, arm curled around Liam’s chest, fingertips gripping the tiny bit of robe that still sits there, his thigh still wrapped over Liam’s. Harry mouths at the round of Liam’s shoulder until Liam turns his head and their lips mould around each other instead, soft touches amongst shallow breaths. Liam counts forty-seven blinks of Harry’s lashes until they slow and his eyes barely open.

Liam sighs, knowing that whatever it was that brought Harry here will keep him a moment longer, even longer than that if Liam puts him to bed. “Come on, you,” he says, joining his hand with Harry’s, tugging his fingertips from the hold they have on Liam’s robe. Harry groans and stands anyway, pulling Liam up with him. Liam rights his pants and Harry shuffles a little, shaking his feet one by one to rid himself of his clothing. He must have toed off his runners earlier, leaving him in just a shirt and two different shades of white socks. Their fingers slide together, filling the spaces of each other’s as Liam turns them back down the hall. Harry’s lips rest on the nape of Liam’s neck, and it’s the sort of intimate that Liam craves and Harry seems to bestow only at times like this. Harry’s so close he might as well be Liam’s shadow. 

Harry dives into Liam’s bed, burrowing under the duvet and four blankets that Liam’s taken to sleeping with because it’s October and it’s cold and the damn radiator is always on the blink. Liam shrugs off his robe and after a few seconds’ thought spent running his thumbs inside the elastic of his pants, shucks them, too. He pads softly to the bathroom, hissing when his feet hit the ice-cold tiles, and waits for the water to warm (an age) before wetting a flannel to clean them both up with. He avoids his reflection in the mirror. Can feel where Harry has left his mark (neck, shoulder, collarbone, and a gigantic bruise he can almost feel pulsating around his birthmark). He cleans himself up first, refreshes the cloth, and near runs back to bed—to Harry. 

Harry’s half asleep—or faking it well—when Liam returns. “Fuck off, Li,” his voice calls, scratchy and deep, when Liam rips the blankets back and attempts to clean their combined mess from Harry’s stomach. 

“Be sticky, then, you prick. Serves you right for waking me up at this hour,” Liam says with no real malice behind his words. Harry reaches up and grabs at Liam’s hand, brings it back down to his skin, and finally stills his wriggling. Liam’s chest aches, an awful squeezing _hurt_ , because there are so few times Harry actually lets Liam care for him, at least in ways that look obvious. 

“All done,” Liam say softly when the cloth is cool and Harry was probably clean three or four strokes ago. He tosses the cloth in the direction of his hamper and before he can turn to walk around to his side of the bed, Harry’s got a firm grip around his wrist and just _pulls_ Liam onto the bed with him. 

“You’re such a child,” 

Liam admonishes lightly when Harry finishes arranging them both under the covers, Harry the big spoon and Liam the little. He shouldn’t like this as much as he does. Shouldn’t relax and feel so good in Harry’s arms. Shouldn’t let it get to him the way it does, shouldn’t fold the next words out of Harry’s mouth, lips soft against Liam’s skin, packing them away tight into that space that is Harry’s alone (ever widening, fit to burst). 

“Love you.”

But Liam doesn’t return it. Doesn’t say the words back that he thinks and shouts in his mind. Because if he does—if he does—Harry might know that whatever this is they have between them means more than it should. That Harry means more.

And Liam can’t risk that. He can’t let Harry go.

. . .

 

“We’re going out.”

Liam lifts his head from where he’s been studying something about Macbeth and his Daddy issues and wishing he had paid attention in English back when he was in college because Uni was so much _harder_ without Danielle’s help. Sometimes he called her, she off in the States with some exciting dance company and the world at her feet, and she’d laugh and he’d feel lighter just for hearing her voice. Then he’d remember that he was here and she was there and they never worked as anything more than just kisses when boys came too close (for her) and girls showed too much boob (for him). He often wonders what she’d think of Harry—Harry with his smile and his laugh and the strange way he eats his Weetabix with his left hand even though he writes with his right. Would she like the Harry that wasn’t “big time superstar in the making” or “possibly Jim Morrison’s love child if the hair and voice are anything to go by” and “sure to be headlining Glastonbury next year”? 

Would she hate him for what Liam’s become because of it all?

“Out?” he says instead, brushing back thoughts of how this paper is due in two days and he hasn’t made a start on the thousands of words he’s supposed to write.

Harry’s head lands in Liam’s lap and his eyes are glassy, red-rimmed, and he reeks of whatever high-class ganja or something more that he’s scored. He’s wearing that damn black pea coat that Liam loves—the lapels popped high, perfect for Liam to pull him in and kiss and kiss if they’re drunk enough. If Harry wants enough.  
Harry’s fingers curl up and around Liam’s neck, pads pressing into his skin, pulling him down so Harry can lift up and meet him halfway.

“Come on, Li,” Harry breathes, his lips just shy of meeting Liam’s, and Liam’s heart thumps in double time because he knows this look on Harry.

Cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering, and lips red from the cold outside. It’s November and he smells of icy winds with the promise of snow just out of reach. He breathes out sweet smoke and just the hint of vodka, and Liam thinks, this is need.

He takes a deep breath, more to keep Harry waiting than anything else, though Harry probably knows that Liam won’t say no. Can’t say no.

“I’m picking my clothes, though.”

Harry barks out a laugh and rolls off Liam’s lap, grabbing his hand along the way. “We’ll see.”

It takes longer than it should for Liam to get ready. They stop once to argue over the cleanliness of a shirt that Liam is fairly certain belongs to Harry. Then stop again when the argument loses all its appeal once Liam loses his pants and Harry’s mouth wraps around Liam’s cock. Liam’s back hits the bed, and going out loses all its appeal entirely . . . . Stoned Harry can make a blow job last hours; it's as if time slows the more Harry slows, and every single movement becomes something Harry is cataloguing for later. They kip for a bit, Liam’s dark jeans still around his ankles and the maybe clean shirt of Harry’s tucked up under his armpits and Harry’s curls like a blanket on his hip. 

They make it out the door at twelve and to some club, bright flashes and Harry’s middle finger a salute to the papz waiting as they enter. The music is loud and Harry ignores all the voices and faces who call out, his grip tight on Liam as he winds them through to the back. Liam wonders if the head Harry gave him before was to trick him into being comfortable in a situation like this. Harry knows that clubbing or being out with “The Harry Styles” isn't something Li is at ease with. Early on, before the Brit award and the VMAs and the Grammy nomination, Liam was fine with Harry and the band. He’d drink with them in clubs much seedier than this, laugh at Josh’s awful jokes, and fall a little for Zayn’s eyelashes and brooding good looks.

Then fame came creeping in and the little hold he’d had on Harry lessened and nameless faces seemed to matter more. 

Nothing matters now, though. It's just him and Harry and a bottle of tequila that Harry manages to nab with a wink and a smile, placing it on their table with a little pile of lime wedges and a shaker of salt. It's one shot and then three and Liam can only feel Harry’s hand, warm on his knee. Only taste liquor and citrus and Harry on his lips, feel Harry’s collarbone on his tongue. Harry is all teeth and whispers against Liam’s neck, “We’ll dance on the tables tonight, you and me, Li. Always you and me.”

Liam nods and lets the fuzziness fill his head, the pounding of the bass rocking its way from his feet through his spine as Liam kisses and kisses the boy he loves. The boy who means more.

He doesn’t ask about the new black ink that lines Harry’s skin. Doesn’t ask what the words mean. Doesn’t mention that he's seen a new photo online with Zayn having the same thing. Doesn’t think it’s a good time to discuss Zayn moving in with that girl. Doesn’t mention Zayn at all.

. . .

 

His window is open and there is literally snow blowing in. It’s December and it’s ridiculous, but he sighs and pulls himself free of the half- dozen blankets on his bed, shoves his feet into what were once soft woollen Ugg boots but are now just ratty with giant holes where his big toes are. Liam pulls the duvet around himself and then sets off for the window, knowing full well who he’ll find outside on the tiny so-called “balcony” that is really only big enough to fit three medium-sized potted plants. Or two scrunched-up boys, seeing as Liam’s plants never seem to live past the third day of ownership and he gave up on gardening after round six.

How Harry isn’t frozen to death is something Liam can’t begin to understand as he sticks his head out the window and takes in the hunched form there, curled inward against the night. Harry’s obviously been out here a while, if the small flakes of white on the tips of his lashes and ends of his curls are anything to go by. Liam shuffles out, wraps the duvet around Harry and his arm over Harry’s shoulder as he sits down. Harry doesn’t say a word and neither does Liam, only turning to press his lips to the pale, chilled skin of Harry’s forehead when he leans into Liam’s touch. Liam rubs his hand briskly over Harry’s arm as Harry nuzzles in close, turning his head, and Liam yelps because “Fuck, Haz! You’re nose is like ice!”

Harry says nothing, just presses his lips there instead, and Liam shivers because, if it’s possible, they feel colder than the tip of Harry’s nose. They soon heat up, though—or Liam’s temp lowers from being outside—as Harry litter’s Liam’s neck and jaw with kisses and flirty touches of his tongue. Liam’s grip on Harry’s arm tightens as Harry turns further into Liam’s embrace. Liam isn’t exactly sure what Harry wants. It’s too dark to see his face, too cold to shift the duvet from around them to get a clear look. He can imagine all he wants about what Harry’s eyes would say—the green depths always provide Liam with insight—but it’s so _fucking cold_ that he is barely keeping hold of the three of them (himself, Harry, and the duvet).

Harry continues for a bit, until there’s not much of this side of Liam’s neck and even his collarbone that’s untouched by Harry’s mouth. Soon Harry just sort of stops, lips barely touching this space behind Liam’s ear. It’s soothing in a way that it probably shouldn’t be, but Liam’s body is sort of set in this lazy burn from the inside out, capped mostly by just how bloody _cold_ it is while they sit out here, despite the blanket. Harry snuffles a little, ducking his head into Liam’s neck and resting his forehead there while they sit and breathe and watch as the clouds part for a moment to show a silvery moon in the middle of its cycle. 

He wants to say something to Harry. Wants to ask why he’s here or why the hell he thought coming outside was an option and why is it this time out of every other time Harry has dropped by (drunk/stoned/out of his mind), he _finally_ used his spare key?

Yet he doesn’t.

They sit and Harry’s breathing evens out, so much so that Liam didn’t realise there was something off about it before.

“Come inside, Haz,” Liam whispers, the words getting lost in the atmosphere in white puffs that fizzle into nothing. Harry doesn’t say anything but stands slowly, and it’s only when Liam’s arm moves up, too, that he notices their hands are joined again.

He tries to ignore how it doesn’t make him _feel_ any different. He tries to ignore that their holding hands like this has become the norm. He tries and fails to keep everything inside when they are bundled up in Liam’s bed, window closed and radiator turned up to near tropical in the hope that the thing will actually _work_. He tries and he tries not to let everything seep out but Harry just _fits_ around him, and Harry’s not said a word so it’s probably why Liam finds himself speaking instead.

“Harry—” he starts, but now that he’s finally ready to say something—and it’ll be something he shouldn’t because it’s bubbling in his throat and his tongue is poised against the back of his teeth—he finds that he can’t.  
Because Harry is snoring softly. Harry is curled around him like Liam _means_ something more, and that’s enough for Liam to choke on a sigh, swallow it all down.

Eventually Harry’s snuffling and the rhythm of his breaths become the soundtrack to Liam’s slumber.

When he wakes and Harry is gone, he hates that he never spoke up. Harry never leaves without saying goodbye. A note on the bathroom mirror written in lipstick that Liam certainly doesn’t own, a smiley-faced pancake in place of a thank you, even that one time he left all of Liam's shoes in the living room in the shape of a love heart with their initials in the middle.

This time—nothing at all.

Liam doesn’t know why it makes his stomach sink. Why this feels more final, more like an end than anything between them before.

It’s three days later—when he hears through a friend that Harry’s been photographed on a drug-fuelled bender, arm wrapped solidly around Zayn’s waist, and another where tongues are involved, while the band tours Europe—that Liam figures it out.

Harry doesn’t need him anymore.

. . .

 

Louis happens by accident.

Well, not entirely by accident, but Liam isn’t looking for anything, either, when Louis just—happens.

It’s January—by minutes, actually—and Liam’s wiping at his tingling lips and staring into blue, blue eyes and wondering if he really should have given into Niall and had that one drink at all. He can’t remember who kissed who but he does remember seeing the boy in front of him around earlier in the party. He was attached at the hip to some long-legged, long-haired pretty bird, so Liam had skipped him over without a second thought.

Liam was a big believer in the old saying, “The best ones are either married or straight,” and Louis was too pretty and had his hand too low on the girl’s back for Liam to think anything else.

So it’s also a reasonable reaction that he runs the moment his faculties return.

What he doesn’t expect is for Louis to follow.

Follow him out of the building.

Follow him in a taxi back to Liam’s flat.

Follow him up the stairs and into Liam’s bed and into Liam’s life until January bleeds into February and it’s Valentine’s Day. It’s raining and the morning is grey and dreary and Louis whines when Liam reminds him that he has an early shift at the coffee shop and Liam has to go run (one of his few New Year’s resolutions that he’s actually been able to maintain, the other involving ignoring all news of a certain curly-haired boy). Liam presses his lips to Louis’ cheek, muffling a laugh when Louis turns his face and burrows into Liam’s pillow. It’s only when Liam is looking on the floor for his trainers that he notes just how _much_ of the room has become an ocean of Liam/Louis clothes. It warms his heart, this heat that seeps from his chest out to the very tips of his fingers and toes, and it doesn’t take much for him to give Louis a key and make Louis a “proper” part of Liam’s home. 

He doesn’t run that day but gets his exercise in other forms.

February becomes March and then it’s the thirty-first of May when Liam realises he’s been with Louis for six months. Six months, and outside of the dysfunction of another, this is the longest relationship he’s had. It sort of stuns him stupid a little before ten at night while he’s sitting at a table close to where Louis is brewing designer coffees and flirting politely with all and sundry (apparently it gets him good tips, but Liam knows it’s just _how_ Louis is). He’s staring at Lou, which isn’t anything unusual—he _always_ finds himself staring at Lou when he’s supposed to be studying or eating or breathing, really.

“Oi!” Liam jumps as Louis flicks at his nose, throwing himself at Liam as he’s wont to do. Liam scrunches his face up but can’t help smiling because a lap full of Louis is nothing new and sort of makes his whole body warm. “You’ve been staring a while. Did I get foam in my fringe again? Because you promised you’d tell me this time.”

Liam pats down Louis’ fringe—much to Lou’s annoyance, if the way he pinches his lips together is anything to go by—and shakes his head no.

“So why were you staring, then? I know I’m ridiculously good-looking, but you see this face in the morning.” Louis bends in close to Liam’s ear, his breath hot over Liam’s skin. “Without. Product.” Louis enunciates each word so it sounds utterly lewd, and Liam can’t help wriggling in his seat. Louis laughs and smacks a kiss to Liam’s cheek, his arm tightening where it lies around Liam’s shoulders.

Liam shrugs and turns his head in time to see Louis just smiling at him like Liam is the best thing in the world, and it just stirs up this mess of emotions and he can feel it—can feel three words on the tip of his tongue—so he does the first thing he can think of.

He snogs the living daylights out of Louis until a catcall from Aiden at the counter brings him back. Louis shifts on Liam’s lap, one brow raised high because—well, kissing Louis does _things_ to Liam’s lower half.

“Let’s go out tonight,” Liam says, squashing down the other things he still feels like champagne bubbles running under his skin, begging to be set free. Louis tilts his head with a smile, nodding with a soft okay. His fingers slide into Liam’s hair at the back of his neck as he pulls Liam in for more kissing until Aiden actually throws a muffin (or three) at them to get them to stop.

They help Aiden to lock up after breaking apart. Liam stashes his books in Louis’ locker because Aiden’s called his boyfriend Matt and they’re all meeting at the club a few blocks away. Matt works behind the bar there but has a good relationship with the bouncer so he can get them in through the back door. Louis must be keen on getting out for the night, or maybe Liam’s shirt isn’t too ratty, because he doesn’t even suggest they go home first. The music is loud and the bass thumping when they get inside, losing Aiden seconds after entering as he heads to the bar to get them all a few drinks. Louis doesn’t even wait for Aiden to get back before he’s dragging Liam onto the dance floor. Liam goes easily because Louis can _move_ , and if there’s one thing Liam loves it’s watching Louis and how handsy he is when he gets carried away by music.

Aiden finds them eventually and Matt manages to leave the bar later, so the four of them are moving around each other—shots being had, drinks being drunk—and it’s good. Really good.

Louis licks this long strip up Liam’s neck and Liam smiles, grabbing hard at Louis’ hips when he leans in. “Just going to the loo—be right back, babe.” Liam nods, kissing Louis all wet and slightly sloppy with tongue and promise, and Louis slaps his arse before disappearing after Matt.

Maybe it’s because the club is playing this song that Liam loves that he doesn’t notice how much larger the hands are when they curl around his waist, thumbs brushing over where his hip bones are on display as his shirt has ridden up. Maybe it’s because Liam is so used to sharing Louis with the other two or being shared himself as someone to dance with that he doesn’t shy away from being pulled back against a tall, hard body.

He definitely should push away when he turns and comes face to face with Harry once he opens his eyes, forearms already brought up to rest on shoulders he should have recognised were up higher than he was used to. He hates that there’s this spike in his heart rate the moment Harry smiles, the steady thumps near stilling completely when Harry leans in to press their foreheads together, his hands still tight on Liam’s hips, thumbs still circling slowly over Liam’s skin.

“Li.”

And Liam blinks hard, bites at his lip because of how Harry says his name.

It shouldn’t be as easy as it is when Harry presses their lips together. It should be this rush of “I've missed you” and “Why’d you leave me” and “I saw you with him” and “You picked him, not me, not me,” but Liam can’t speak. His mouth is filled with Harry’s tongue and his taste and Liam gives in without a second thought.

He gives in because it’s _Harry_ and he didn’t realise how much he missed him (yes he did, but he’s lied to himself so much since he last saw this boy that it comes as second nature now). How right it feels to be held by Harry as he slips his thigh between Liam’s and he can feel Harry hard against him and Harry just _knows_ how to pull on Liam’s lip and have him completely at Harry’s will. Liam threads his fingers into Harry’s curls, so much longer than he’s ever known them to be, and he maps Harry’s mouth with his own because this feels like coming home. It’s so good, so right, that he forgets where they are and what he’s doing.  
Maybe it’s because of how Harry can’t keep his hands from Liam’s skin that he doesn’t see him. Maybe it’s because Harry has got Liam’s fly down enough to fit his hand inside, moulded to Liam’s dick, that he doesn’t recognise that Louis has returned until it’s too late.

Then he’s pushing Harry back and his mouth is forming all these words, apologies, explanations, but nothing is coming out.

Nothing is coming out and Louis has glassy eyes that are _not_ from all the alcohol they’ve consumed and he doesn’t move, even though he wants to, when Louis turns and disappears into the crowd.

He doesn’t, though, because Harry’s holding his hand.

. . .

 

Liam goes home for the summer. 

Well, he throws himself at Louis for three weeks in the beginning, texting and calling and annoying Aiden at the coffee house until he actually calls the _police_ to have Liam moved along.

It would look pathetic, really, if it weren’t for the fact that Liam feels so fucking badly about what he did. 

It took him seconds to let go of Harry’s hand—well, more pull his hand free because Harry didn’t let go. Liam just took off, chasing after Louis through the crowd and out onto the street where—of course—there were a gaggle of cameras waiting because “Harry Fucking Styles” was in the building. Liam blinked his way through the first flashes of light that came from the cameras, near blinding him (they obviously hadn’t forgotten who Liam was a one-time “close friend” of). By the time he could finally see past the myriad of purple, green, and orange circles in front of his eyes, he caught the back of Louis’ head and the curve of his arse leaning into a cab and then Louis was gone. Liam tried to give chase, tried to get another cab and go after Louis, but by the time he got to the rank it was too late. 

Louis was gone.

Liam had tried. He really had. He hated himself for giving into Harry so easily—months the twat had been gone and Liam had hardly given him a second thought. He’d been so tired of the push and pull he’d had with Harry. This delicate dance around each other they’d had for far too long. There were only so many times Liam could let Harry tug on his strings and pull Liam in with all his love and his care and his want to _fix_ everything that was wrong with Harry. And Liam had been that for him. Been there ever since he’d met Harry when they’d been standing in line, waiting to see if they’d been put through into the Home Visits on XFactor. They hadn’t, but they’d commiserated over a pint or six and then fallen into Liam’s bed, fallen into each other for a week, and only untangled their limbs when Liam couldn’t miss another day of school.

That had sort of been it, really. 

He’d been there for Harry when he kept on with the idea of making music, of the whole rockstar persona. He’d sat in when Harry had a meet-up at the pub around the corner from Liam’s—lads Harry knew or knew of all dropping in to smash this band of misfits together into something more. Liam had been there from the very start—seen how Zayn looked at Harry and how Harry glanced up at Zayn through his curls and flushed pretty pink over his cheekbones every time. 

Liam had known then that he’d never totally have Harry. If it wasn’t the music, it would be the boy with the dark, soulful eyes and the perfect jaw and tamed hair that always looked perfect. 

And it worked. It worked well for the band with both the lead singer and lead guitarist being somewhat attracted to each other. The girls went wild when they winked at them—but when they winked at each other? That just brought their fame to another level. 

So Zayn had his girls and Harry, and Harry had his Liam and his Zayn, and it should have been fine. Was fine.

Then Liam’s feelings had to go and get in the road, and every time he was with Harry felt like it was borrowed.

Wolverhampton is lovely in July. 

His parents are beyond excited to have their baby boy home and they don’t ask, only support his decision to stick around until maybe August. Liam gets a summer job back with the local boys’ club teaching music and generally bunking off just as much as the kids he’s supposed to look after. He catches up with old mates and ignores the looks Maz gives him, wanting an explanation that Liam is too embarrassed/guilty/sick to give about what happened with Louis. Andy doesn’t care—never did like Louis much, anyway—and asks instead about Harry because Andy’s always loved to drop a name here and there and Harry is the most famous person Andy knows. All because of Liam, but that never seems to matter in his friend’s mind.

It’s okay.

It’s not great, and he doesn’t wake up smiling like he used to do for the first six months of the year, but he slowly rebuilds what became of his heart. Uses familiar needle and thread to stitch himself together like he did for Harry all those many times before.

He’s good.

He’s fine.

That’s what he tells his mother as she hugs him hard and close and almost doesn’t let him go in time to catch the train back to London. It’s late when he gets in, he’s tired, and after a shocking night’s sleep back at his parent’s he almost drags his feet along the hall to his door. There’s this shape lying in front of it, the light above flickering as it always has done and making it near impossible to see who or what it is until he’s so close he nearly steps on him.

Harry.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he whispers, but it must be louder than he thought or maybe it’s the fact that he’s dropped his bag to his feet at the same time that rouses Harry.

Liam’s shaking his head, as if shaking it will get rid of this surge of feelings and emotions bubbling their way through his body. He’s all the things he doesn’t want to be—excited, warm, happy to see Harry; and he’s also all the things he wants to be—angry, hurt, and hateful because Harry’s there. It’s as if a small part of him hoped someone different, less famous, more quick to smile, and about a foot shorter would be there instead. But that’s not going to happen, not now. 

Instead, it’s Harry blinking slow and rolling himself up onto the balls of his feet, long arms stretching above an even longer torso. Liam doesn’t know what to do. He wants to hit Harry for being here, and at the same time his fingers tingle to reach out and touch and _fix_ everything. Like he normally would, always has.

He picks up his bag and moves to his door instead.

“Li,” Harry says in that way that can bring Liam to his knees. It’s that gravelly tone Liam’s heard between sets when Harry woos the crowd. It’s the “morning” whispered under too many blankets and it’s the whimper when he’s right at the edge and one more stroke/thrust/lick will bring him undone.

Liam pushes all that down, just stomps on it hard and swallows Harry’s name down, bites hard on his tongue to remind himself of all the pain Harry’s caused. He fusses in his pocket, hands shaking as he tries to find his key, and then it’s this metal tapping when he’s got it at the lock because he can _not_ get it to go in.

When Harry reaches out to steady his fingers, Liam drops the bloody thing as he jumps back, Harry’s touch almost like a burn to his skin. Harry says nothing, just bends down to get it at the same time as Liam, and it would be comical when their heads bump on the way back up if Liam weren’t so out of sorts just from Harry being at his door.

Harry waiting like he’s never done. Never had to.

Liam forces himself to get the bloody thing unlocked this time, letting himself in, and as much as he wants to turn quick and shut the door in Harry’s face, he can’t. Instead he walks in, dumps his keys in the little glass bowl his sister gave him for his birthday the year before, and walks further into his flat. Harry follows—Liam knew he would—but says nothing, which is good because Liam’s not sure he can handle anything more than the shortening of his name that’s been the only word from Harry so far. He dumps his bag in the living room, it’s all clean laundry anyway—one of the pros of staying with his mum—so nothing needs to be done apart from packing things away.

And even though it’s been months, even though he wants answers and at the same time doesn’t, Liam is just so _tired_ that he figures it can wait. Harry can wait.

“I think you remember where the sofa is,” is all he says before heading down the hall and collapsing face-first onto his bed where, thankfully, sleep comes before his brain can filter through anything more.

It’s early when he wakes. He always leaves the curtains wide open when he’s gone, and the sunlight from dawn is particularly bright as it burns in pearls of white and light yellows into his room. Liam lies there and for a moment he forgets who was at his door the night before. For a moment he forgets that the summer really even happened. It’s always like this in those first few seconds when his mind struggles to slide out from slumber. Then the hurt comes rushing back in when his eyes finally _do_ open and his arms are empty and his bed even more so. This time, however, there is the added bonus of knowing that the reason for both of these things may still be located in his living room. 

Or on his balcony, because the window is open.

And he doesn’t want to go out there. Doesn’t want to hear anything from Harry, really, but Harry was near sleeping outside his door, and being friends (plus more) with someone for five years must mean _something_. 

Harry’s curled up in the space he always seems to fit into when Liam slides out the window and onto the balcony. There’s a cup of something dark and milky sitting on the lip of the space between the iron bars that keep them in, and it’s still steaming. He sits himself down beside Harry; it’s closer than he wants to be but it _is_ tiny out here, so he tries not to lean his body against the other boy’s and fails somewhat. Harry’s sipping at his own cup, so Liam picks up the other one, and after blowing over the top of it he lets the heat and bitter taste of the shit coffee Harry drinks (that Liam never actually threw away but left in the back of the cupboard) drive away his morning breath. 

It should be stranger than it is, sitting out here with a hot cup in his hands and Harry by his side.   
It should hurt more or ache a little less, but it’s nothing. There’s _nothing_ apart from the why, why, _why_ that, as he wakens, pulses faster around his body until by the end of the cup he’s near shaking with unanswered questions.

“Zayn quit the band” is what Harry says to break the silence that’s been only their quiet breathing and the sounds of a city waking up around them. Liam says nothing in return. He’s not entirely sure what to do with that, anyway. “He’s gone out on his own. It’s just me and the band now.”

Liam nods, doesn’t turn his head to see if Harry’s watching him for a reaction because he can just see the tangled mess of Harry’s dark curls from the corner of his eye and Harry hasn’t moved since Liam came out here. Liam lets Harry’s words roll around in his mind and thinks, because they’ve never been entirely open to each other, only ever used half-sentences and misconstrued words to say what they really mean. With Harry’s sort of confession Liam hears, “That part of my life is over, I’m starting anew.”

Months ago that would have meant something. Months ago it would have meant the world to Liam—but now?

“Mum sends her love” is all he says in return, because she did, and because it tells Harry where he’s been, bwhere he’s been hiding himself.

“Niall does, too,” and Liam hears that Harry’s been back to what was always _their_ club, where their mutual friend ended up working, which Liam hadn’t been back to after everything went south between him and Louis.

A car alarm goes off as Liam puts his empty cup down beside Harry’s. It’s red and white and it’s chipped and it’s the one Harry always uses when he comes here—another of those things Liam couldn’t bear to throw away even though Louis hated it when he lived here, too.

“Did you love him?” Harry says after they’ve heard three sirens and the unmistakable sound of a garbage truck in the street below. Liam’s whole body feels cold; the warmth of the rising sun that was nice on his face fades immediately with those four little words.

He swallows and swallows again because his throat is tight and there’s the hate back, the anger at himself for falling into Harry the way he did and the fact that he did it so easily at the time. 

“Did you?” is what spits from Liam’s mouth, and Harry recoils, sitting back further against the half-wall as if he can vanish into it.

Harry’s hand shakes as he pulls a cigarette from somewhere behind his ear, hidden by wayward curls. It shakes even more so as he puts the cigarette to his mouth and finally lights it after three goes. He puffs twice quickly, then takes a deep drag, and Liam keeps count of the spaces between Harry answering him and the silence after their confessions by tapping his fingers hard against his knee. 

Harry sniffs eventually, smoke rushing out of his nose and being replaced by the somewhat cleaner air around them. He turns a little, his eyes finally meeting Liam’s, and it guts Liam in an instant.

The deep green, the gold flecks even brighter in the morning light, and the dark bags that seem to be holding a lifetime of luggage under them. Harry’s lips are chapped and dry, shining for only a brief moment as the tip of his tongue darts out quick to wet them, and Liam’s stomach turns at the sight because it’s _Harry_ and he’s always been pretty, but even more so when he’s a little bit dirty. A little bit grungy.

A little less than perfection.

“Did you know you can see your place from the little caf two streets over?” Is what Harry says and it’s nothing like what Liam expects to hear. He had thought they’d finally be open and honest with each other – he should have known better. “That bloke you were seeing,” he starts and Liam’s stomach drops even more so. “He’s been by here twice this week, three times last. Always three and he always leaves empty handed.” 

And Liam’s next breath comes in as a shudder. That lump in his throat rises harder with sorrow and ache, and it’s not for Harry at all. 

Blue eyes, soft kisses on his shoulder before he sleeps, a quirked eyebrow, and a laugh he can still hear in his   
mind now.  
Liam’s fingers tap out a new rhythm on his thigh now and it sounds a little like hope, even to his ears.

Harry blows out another long line of smoke and then drops the butt into his mug. Liam blinks as Harry tilts his head to the side, a sad sort of smile forming on his lips. 

“You, me, coffee, and cigarettes,” he says with a laugh, all low and deep. Years ago it would have made Liam turn and try to kiss all of it from Harry’s mouth until it was just them, just him and Harry, that they both tasted like.

Liam doesn’t move at all.

Harry stands, his fingers tight on Liam’s shoulder as he steps over him and disappears through the open window. Liam’s eyes close because it feels like Harry’s finally letting him go and it hurts, and it’s the first time Harry’s touched him since he came home. 

“Love you” is what he hears when he opens his eyes. They fall on the missing coffee mug and the glint of gold from the key Harry hardly ever used that sits in its place.

. . .

 

“Babe, do you know you can see our place from here?” 

Liam’s hand stills for the smallest second from where he was lifting his cup of tea to his mouth. He takes a sip and concentrates on how the warmth sliding down his throat is not half as hot as Louis’ hand on his knee.

It’s summer again and Louis’ fingers slide up a little onto Liam’s thigh, flirting under the hem of his shorts like a balm against his skin. Liam’s heart skips a beat when he realises that Louis said “ours”. It’s been a week and it still surprises him to fall asleep in Louis’ arms or hear Louis singing terribly off-key in their bathroom if he wakes up alone.

“Yeah,” he says, “a friend once told me that.” And Louis smiles and Liam’s heart fixes just that little bit more.


End file.
